How many times have you bashed your narcissistic ex? How many times have you laughed at someone for being delusional? How many times have you called someone “Bipolar?” How many times have you ostracized someone for their explosive anger? Have you ever villainized someone for their constant mood swings and split personality? What about annihilating someone for having chronic insecurities and self hatred?

Like many of you, I’ve been guilty of a lot of these.

After centuries of oppression, trauma, and set backs, people of color post-slavery are already at a disadvantage in the race of life from their time of birth. Just this first sentence alone, I know many people will have stopped reading by now.

Why?

Because it’s, “Here they go again, playing the victim about being Black.”

The best part of my job is the worst part of my job. It’s like loving to write on a chalkboard, but cringing, screaming and crying every time the chalk touches the board.

I love music, but I hate karaoke.

I love seeing newly engaged Shelly and her bridesmaids-to-be drunk on tequila shots living their best lives, singing “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston. But as soon as they’d get to the high notes, I want to Usain Bolt away in terror screaming, and bash my head into the nearest wall until the sound stops. Them off key notes are not fun for my nerves, and my brain somehow refuses to process the jest of it.

When I initially decided to start this mental health blog, I sent the first chapter to an ex boyfriend of mine who’s an author and publisher to get his literary expertise, as well as an opinion as someone who knows me quite well. He told me it was brilliantly written, but asked me if I thought people deserved to know me so intimately and have that much access to my vulnerability. I thought about that long and hard, and I’m still thinking about it today.

Even as I’m writing this.

The average minimum wage in America is $7.25 per hour. Average monthly salary is $5,783. Average monthly rent is $1,300, assuming that you’re single. Average cost of food per month for a single person is $343.11.

Bear with me. There’s a point.

Average cost of therapy ranges between $100 - $200 per session. You’ll probably need 4 of those for the month. One each week. So that’ll be around $400 - $800. To fill a prescription for Adderall or Concerta for ADHD treatment per month is roughly $185. If we’re talking about intense antipsychotics for Schizophrenia, for example Clozapine, we’re looking at $105 per prescription. Oh wait. Health insurance. Insert face palm emoji here.

I’m the kinda girl who used to get naked on the first date.

Figuratively.

I’d lay that shi out on the table off the rip. It be like, “So boom! Look, I’m bipolar and I suffer from severe anxiety and intermittent sleep disorder. There. Let’s get to know each other now.”

A creative journey on how ignoRANT came to be.

Finding a way to merge my art, music and poetry was the greatest dream I ever had since I was a child. I spent most of my childhood and teenage years trying to figure out how I was going to do that. Edna Manley College of the Visual and Performing Arts! Yes! As soon as I discovered that place back in Jamaica, I was like, that’s the college I will go to. I was going to become a poet, a painter, a singer and a psychologist using art as treatment. The psychology thing I figured I’d study after art school, but at least I’d get started on the art, music and poetry. Further research revealed that, at the time, I could only major in one, and maybe do an elective in the other. Wasn’t very good news to me. I literally flipped a coin to decide. Ok, I’ll study art and do piano as an elective at the school of music department, since I already started studying piano there while I was still in high school during the summers. Boom! Starting college was the single most exciting day of my life second to getting my acceptance letter.

Now here’s a topic overlooked: After therapy care.

After several failed attempts at therapy, I started assessing the reasons for this. Why was it so difficult for me and why did I hate it so much?

Other than my struggle to find the right therapist who would be a good fit for my eccentric personality, I found one common denominator to my previous disdain for therapy. I hated it, because I hate being alone after therapy.

It is beyond me why every single time I’m in a highly triggered situation or having an episode, I spend most of my time arguing, explaining and teaching the people that I allow to be there for me (after they said they would,) how to actually be there and be considerate of my mental health?

Why on earth am I attending to their inadequacies, ignorance, entitlement and needs–even in a dire situation–when I need my needs attended to?

I do not love myself right now.

There. Whew. I finally said it out loud so now the real work can begin.

That was extremely difficult admitting to myself.

It’s embarrassing and I’m ashamed. My whole vibe is constructed on the firm foundation of confidence, knowledge of self, real genuine self esteem, and self empowerment. And granted, none of this has ever been fraudulent or disingenuous, but something happened along the way that I felt broke me.

I’m typing this in my memo pad 2:35pm on a Monday afternoon, still in bed. Haven’t gotten out since I woke up at 7:40am, empty stomach, a full bladder, and dizziness from not eating.

My chest hurts really badly. It’s a combination of lack of food, and the panic attack/sleep paralysis that woke me up around 4am. My feet are cold and the rest of my body is warm. My eyes are heavy, and hurt from staring at my phone trying to find things to slow my mind. I’m neither able to focus completely on writing this, or the sitcom series playing in the background that was supposed to be the ‘feel good’ content to help me sleep during the night.

First of all: Ye, formerly Kanye West, is not the poster child for bipolar and creatives with mental illnesses. Leave that man alone, and stop letting your disdain for him as a person support your invalidation of his mental illness and mental illnesses overall.

I know it’s unusual to see people living their truth– living outside of YOUR standards that you set for them– and being “the maximum version of themselves,” as Ye would put it. But. Let. That. Man. Be. [End rant].

You know, it is always fascinating when these self righteous, pretentious, ignorant people are critical of others with mental health issues.

Imagine, you get to judge someone from your normal eyes, with your normal brain, existing in your normal world, with your normal rules, just for someone who wakes up to be normal just for your sake. The entitlement and ignorance is upsetting.

Let’s talk.

Why really are you so judgmental of something you will never be able to understand unless it affects you directly?

The darkness.

I’m writing this on one of the days when I’m feeling it the most.

When I can’t even find the words to adequately describe what I’m feeling.

When I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to make it.

When I’m so scared, weak and defeated that tears won’t even form.

The darkness is both my noun and my verb.

I like to think of the mental hospital as a little alternate universe that sits somewhere between heaven and hell.

On my first day of being in purgatory, I thought I was still hallucinating from that valium overdose. I woke up one time to discover where I was, and just decided to fall back asleep. Ain’t no way I could be here… this is not happening to me.

Forcing myself to sleep was easy and fast to do, given that days beforeI had OD’d on sleeping pills. Clearly there was still a great deal of that death-sleep concoction left in me.